Mountains Made Low

This started as a comment on the previous post, but it got a little more involved than a comment, perhaps, should. It seems I’m just really annoyed by the very idea that “creativity” is somehow an all-encompassing excuse for the writing that a writing teacher doesn’t like. Interestingly, most students don’t try to pull this bullshit in my classes. Perhaps it’s because I’m clearer about my expectations; perhaps it’s because I’m more specific in my critiques; perhaps it’s because I can pull off no-nonsense in a straightforward and still none-to-aggressive manner.

Whatever its cause, though, it pisses me off (maybe my annoyance is a hold-over from the fact that most of my disciplinary colleagues under the broad umbrella rubric of English Studies still view what I do as somehow inferior or second-class) that students seem to think, at times, that expository writing — composition — or (dare I even say it?) nonfiction writing (because, at this level particularly, there is precious little “academic” about the writing) is somehow inferior to what they see as “creative” writing (you know, what some English professors see as the “real work” of English programs).

I know, of course, that there’s such a thing as creative nonfiction — hell, I teach it on occasion. But “creative” nonfiction is still about the “rules” of exposition and, to a lesser extent, argumentation. It just also applies more of the flavor of narration and more of the logic (if you’ll permit me) and sensibility of verité, of staged reality. Creative nonfiction, that is, is both Heideggerian and Baudrillardian. There’s the sense of “being there,” in nonfiction, a pervasive and inescapable dasein — if it’s done right. But there’s also a sense in which there’s no there there unless and until the creative piece is composed. The essay precedes its subject — logically, if not temporally. The representation creates the represented. Without the writing (as both act and product), there is no event.

The same might be said for the writing that happens in a comp class — even in a developmental one. But I doubt many would want to say it. Composition cannot be said to be creative; it is, though, (omg, more theory) disciplinary in Foucault’s sense. Though many of my colleagues in rhetoric and composition studies (my field, more narrowly construed) may shudder to hear me say it, composition courses are not about teaching students how to write; instead, they’re about teaching students how to be writers. Composition — developmental, first-year, advanced — is really no more or less than basic training (okay, advanced comp may be more like technical school, to extend that metaphor).

By this I mean that we tend to teach our students what it means — in the narrowest possible sense! — to be a writer. At these levels, our students, their writing, and therefore our instruction are (must be?) at their most rule-bound. It’s not, in comp, about what writers can do, under the correct circumstances, but about what those writers must do in order to make themselves understood. And, of course, it’s about what they must not do (at least at first).

Like it or not, we, in composition, discipline the nascent writer. We show them how knowledge is made, how information is conveyed, and how understanding is built and shared in the written text. This is not an attempt to quash “creativity” — no matter how much my last post may have made it seem so. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Creativity is the freedom the student-writer gains through this disciplinary process. Once any writer grasps the things that are not to be done, and why, they are free to focus on subverting the very rules they have first learned. They are free to bend the rules until the rules break, and then break the rules some more. But discipline must precede subversion, for it is logically impossible to subvert that of which we are unaware. Certainly and granted, we can break a rule unknowingly; true subversion of a rule, of a regulation, of a (gack!) hegemonic practice, though, requires that we know what it is we would subvert, know why it is we would subvert it, and understand in depth both how it can be effectively called into question and what is gained from questioning, from subverting, from breaking, and from — well — creating.

I know this has basically turned into a “my theory dick is as big as anyone’s despite the fact that my English PhD is only in Rhet/Comp” style rant. That is not the (main) point, however. Because even though I can, yes, waggle it with the best of ‘em, the main point from my previous post remains: Creativity — the idea of creative writing — is not the goal of composition, and, moreover, cannot be that goal. Most times, the idea of “creativity,” when cited by a student in a composition class, while invoked as a God-term that all English teachers/instructors/professors everywhere should recognize and do unquestioning homage to because the creation of and the study of creative writing (fiction and poetry in particular) are the real business of English studies and screw this composition thing, is most often, in reality, nothing more (or, in fairness, less) than a mask for the student’s laziness (or, to point back at the instructor a bit, the student’s lack of motivation).

Lacking the motivation, intrinsic or extrinsic, to learn the stuff of composition, these students play the card they think will work: “My writing is more creative.” And honestly, that pisses me off.

But perhaps I should be asking myself and my colleagues one other question: How can we address the lack of motivation that seems to be at the root of this matter with these students?

It’s been an interesting hiatus — a hiatus that has pretty seriously overlapped with the whole first half of the semester. I’d offer my thoughts on: new job, teaching six classes, going to meetings, actually being able to have some fun on the weekends, but even I’m having a difficult time giving a flying … well, y’know, about all of that right now.

Instead, I’m going to talk about something that came up, as content, in one of those mythical meetings.

Last night, I was meeting with the folks who teach developmental English around here, and one of them was talking (a lot) about her students and her experiences in the classroom. In particular, this one student who insists that he’s having so much trouble with the Developmental Writing class (and didn’t place into the college-level composition classes) because he’s “really more of a creative writer.”

And by “creative” writer, he means creative in the sense that I mean it when I talk about “creative driving” — that is, ur doin it rong.

I’m sorry, kids, but “creativity,” unlike love, does not cover a multitude of sins. Okay, well, maybe it does, but not the sort of agreement, parallelism, tense, mental-masturbation/stream-of-unconcsiousness sins you seem hell-bent on committing against yourself, your teachers, and the Language — the Logos, the Word — itself.

I’ve probably kvetched enough here. But know this: Claiming it’s “creative” is not a get out of jail free card — not least because this ain’t no creative writing class…even good creative writing would not be appropriate.

Teachers get to make the assignments, and decide if and how well you’ve done them. Hate to say it, but you — most of the time — don’t get a vote in that. And, when you’re in college, in particular, we don’t have to worry so much about trampling on your delicate little flower-like spirit, either.

So do the assignment, and do it well. And save your so-called creative writing. We don’t want or need it.

“The battery’s currently on recharge.”
–Mike Noonan, Bag of Bones (Stephen King)

What can I say? I may have been a little bit blogged out there for a week or so. And the quote above from a fictitious novelist probably reflects the sentiments of the real novelist who created him in terms of the downtime that writers need. But I think I’m back now. I’ve got books to write about (but no movies — I’ve had pointed out to me, recently, both by circumstances and by and extremely pragmatic friend, that my 50-movie goal for 2009 may have been a touch unrealistic. I probably would have been better to shoot for 50 books and 30 movies, rather than vicing them versa as I did. At least, those seem to be the numbers that I’m more likely to hit by the end of December at this point (though, honestly, when the winter kicks in, I might be more prone to watching movies again — after all, I was ahead on the movie count through March); maybe I’ll make it to 50/50. Hmmmm….

But I’ve now got four book posts stuck in the draft folder (and, okay, probably one movie — I’ve been convinced that a TV-tie-in, direct-to-dvd probably does still count as a movie, so I’ll write about it, too). And and idea regarding media, particularly digital media, struck me this morning, so look for that in the near future, too, plus an update on the mundanities of life, as much as those issues deserve updating at this point, which — honestly — ain’t much.

So, yeah, I’m back. And probably back with a vengeance. But we’ll see, I suppose.

I had one today. I was thinking about the writing project that’s been on hiatus for a while, as I’ve been teaching my ass off and things….

At least that was the story (haha!) I had been telling myself. The truth of the matter is, I had a few bits and bobs of ideas along the way, but I had hit a roadblock in the storytelling. Put another way, the small ideas — scenes, narrative turns — were clicking, but I had no idea how to get them into the overall arc of the story — to be more specific again, what I thought the overall arc of the story was.

Turns out, I was wrong about where the story was going. Now, I (think I) know again. And it makes more sense; it incorporates everything I’ve included so far, but goes to an entirely different place.

So, to the one of you reading here who’s been waiting for “more story” with bated breath, I can honestly say that it’s coming. Can’t say when, exactly, yet — the next couple of weeks are replete with work things and work’s-hell-neglected things.

But it’s coming.

With Apologies to Lewis Carroll, Edgar Allen Poe, William Shakespeare — and Dr. Seuss.

For Sylvia, Laura, Holly, Emily, Chelsea, LaShanna, Jason, and Lisa.

The time has come, semester’s end, to speak of sundry stuff,
Of fiction, essays, poetry — we hope they’re up to snuff,
For as these sixteen weeks have passed, you’ve written quite enough.

But now it’s your turn to sit back and to listen
As I share a poem that doesn’t quite glisten
And offer reflections, in Seussical verse,
Of our time spent together — for better or worse.

For we have all survived, without dereliction
This full term of crafting prose, verse, and nonfiction.
From that day in the winter, when first we all met
And the plan for this course wasn’t scary — not yet.

So to class we all came, with creative intent
And, following workshop, we more or less went
To revise and/or drink, or to just piss and moan
Thinking, “This is why writers work so much alone.”

Yet week after week, we returned with aplomb
Gaining comfort as measured by dropping f-bombs
(In the writing, I mean here, for classroom decorum…
Eh, screw it, no one will buy that in this forum.)

As stories were written, all reached the deduction:
The class’s first premise: Mutually Assured Destruction,
Though we rarely tore down without building back up,
Knowing that payback’s a nasty old pup
Or turnabout’s fair, love and war, some cliche
But something had clicked, by our drama day.

Maybe the bear or the murderous mascot
Or a whoozitz so nebulous I just don’t know what.
Perhaps Dr. Horrible’s foe Captain Hammer
Who showcased the hero’s ambition to slam ‘er
Neanderthal-like, while we saw in the end
The doc loved — and killed — his dear laundromat friend.

But right round that time things had started to gel
And by then I felt (somewhat) sure all would be well
The weather — and attitudes — started to thaw
And there, all around me, I looked and I saw:

Some things in this course seemed the work of the Fates:
The long-running list of Things Emily Hates
Or that we unearthed an illustrative penchant
That could not let shit-eating dogs go unmentioned
And that it annoyed one and all quite a lot
That now, as since third grade, check marks the plot.

We learned of each others’ styles, interests, and quirks
Patterns emerged marked by shared knowing smirks,
As for some writers’ writing, the themes were quite fixed:
Wrestling and rock bands, fire and dead chicks.
Others, it seems, have more wandering minds
With love, hold the marriage, and old Frankenstein.
Or scenes that sound odd when they’re plain outright said,
Like the boy thanking God for the girl in his bed.
We had prisons, and Russians, and Nazis — oh my!
And reactions! We learned who would blush and who’d cry.

As a group we knew amusement
Wrought in us by rapt enthusement
Mirth which sometimes made us nearly roll with laughter on the floor
Shake my head and clean my glasses
Wishing, though, that all my classes
Knew that cracking up en masse is something to be striven for
Bonding classmates long together though they quit the schoolroom door
(No! I won’t say, “Nevermore”).

But I’ve channeled again (and I’ll do it one more time),
Stealing from poets of yore meter, scan, rhyme.
So it’s probably best if I don’t keep on going,
Save for these last thoughts that I’d have you be knowing:

In sum, you might think writing’s shadows offend,
If this is the case in your heart, just pretend
That your time in this class was not much but a snooze,
And nothing that happened here should be confused
With the world’s waking life, so no dream that has come
Should give you a moment’s more pause when it’s done.
For now as our time here draws nigh on a close,
I hope we part genial, companions not foes.
So give me your hands if it’s true we be friends,
For that’s how my tribute to this here class ends.

This post was scheduled to be published at 4:00pm on Wednesday, May 6, 2009; probably a little before or a little after I read the poem publicly.

You know, it’s one of those things that never fails: I told my Creative Writing students last week that I don’t “do” poetry, anymore. I did qualify that, though, by saying I do “found”—or accidental—poetry. This is one of those. I was telling a story to a friend, and this one just came out of that.

You’re a little
Drunk.

You’re completely
Baked.

You’re hoping that
Passing the pipe will help you
Get on a woman
You’ve been hitting on, for over a year,
To no apparent effect. Yet

You’re judging me for
Smoking a cigarette.

Monday is workshop day in my Creative Writing class—thanks in no small part to holidays and snow days that sapped this class of 2½ meeting days early on in the semester. I dutifully photocopy my three of my students’ work in progress and distribute it on Wednesday, and we spend Monday discussing it. One week when the packet was particularly thin (I’ve tried to introduce them to the concept of short-short fiction, and all three students submitted their short-short drafts), I even added several pages of the longer project I’m working on to the mix—that was interesting.

This past Monday, however, two of the three stories in the packet made for some interesting discoveries. The first, because one of my comments on it, and the second because of its content, but they both led to discussions of music. The first led to me pretty seriously dating myself, in terms of music, and the second led to a revelation of how little younger people seem to know of the evolution of things that they take for granted in music.

The first story we looked contained a line of dialogue that was almost a verbatim quote of a line from the Gin Blossoms song “Hey Jealousy.” One of the things about teaching where I do is that, for most of my students, I can never reliably guess how old they are, but I know that most of them aren’t 18-22. (And I think I’ve mentioned the 16-50something range in this class already). If I were to guess about the students in this class, though, I would say there’s one who’s 16, one who’s 50something, one in her mid-to-late-30s, one who’s exactly 30 (this one, I do know), and the rest are in their 20s, somewhere (probably heaviest on the 21-25 set). For this workshop, the two students whom I’m pretty sure are older than I am were, of course, absent—this is the day I pick to date myself.

Only the 30-year-old student got my reference. The line in the story was, “No, it’s all right. I’ll just stay here tonight.” I mean, c’mon—I can’t read that and not hear the Gin Blossoms in my head.

And most of these students had no idea what I was talking about. None.

But after I’d put a big old sticker on my forehead that—apparently—said “OLD!” musically speaking, anyway (which is just so wrong—“Hey Jealousy” came out as a single in 1993 on the New Miserable Experience album of 1992), we got to the other story which featured a young woman attending a concert.

And these same students, who were unfamiliar with the Gin Blossoms, felt the need to explain to me the concept of a “pit” at a concert.

Seriously.

To someone who grew up and came of age in the era of punk, metal, and grunge, they’re explaining the concept of the pit.

Seriously.

The funny part, though, is that I did learn something. Apparently at live shows now, the pit is in the middle of the crowd, not down front. And they can probably thank my “old” generation for that, too—with our proclivities for stage-diving and crowd-surfing.

But even though I learned something, I left shaking my head. Because they didn’t know the Gin Blossoms; because they felt the need to explain the pit; because I shudder to think what might have happened if I’d mentioned Nirvana or Korn or the Ramones; because they think that everyone over 30 sits down and listens to the music at concerts—and always has!

Sheesh—never trust anyone over 30, indeed.